


Literally the Worst Idea Ever

by pumpkinonwheels



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2604473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinonwheels/pseuds/pumpkinonwheels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an ill-advised night of peppermint schnapps and "Love Actually", Felicity shows up on Oliver's doorstep with flowers, champagne, and a terrible plan. </p>
<p>Sometime post-3x01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Literally the Worst Idea Ever

**Author's Note:**

> I should have been working on NaNo, so naturally I decided to write this instead! Hope you enjoy.

This is a terrible idea. Literally the worst idea Felicity has ever had, which includes both the time she used permanent dye to tip her hair green for St. Patrick’s Day and when she created that doomsday virus in college.

And yet, even with the knowledge that this a thing she should under no circumstances do, she’s doing it. God help her. Blame the peppermint schnapps she had while watching _Love Actually_ , which she should also never ever do ever. (Add “Watching _Love Actually_ ” to her list of Terrible Ideas).

She doesn’t know what etiquette required here. Normally, she’d just walk into the Foundry, because, well, it’s headquarters. But she isn’t here on Arrow business, and Oliver’s living here now. Like, he has a bed down there and everything. Which she helped pick out. He might very well be sleeping right this minute on that mattress. ( _Don’t think about his mattress, self. Not helping._ )

She probably shouldn’t just walk in. That’s a good way to get an arrow in her. Not like…not like an “arrow” in her. Like, get an arrow _in_ her. ( _Oh, God. Stop, brain, please.)_ Whatever. It’s a good way to startle a man with exceptional archery skills into shooting her.

So, she should knock. Right? Right. Knocking is polite. Good.

Except her hands are full. Oh God, she really didn’t think this through. She sets the bottle down, freeing one hand.

_(Terrible idea. Worst idea ever. What is wrong with me? Go home.)_

She knocks.

Half a minute later, the door swings open, and—

“WHOA! Oliver, it’s me!”

“Felicity?”

He lowers his bow, confusion replacing the tension in his eyes. Or, well, confusion and a _different_ kind of tension replacing it. Things have been so weird since the hospital. They can barely look at each other, he hasn’t touched her in days, and every time they’re alone she prays for a bomb to come along needing diffusing. It’d be easier than diffusing whatever fills the space between them these days.

But then, she supposes that’s why she’s here.

“Felicity, what is that?”

She follows his gaze. “Oh! Right. Um, that’s a little difficult to explain. Well, no, it’s not. They’re flowers. Obviously. I’m carrying flowers. The _why_ I’m carrying flowers is trickier. Can I come in?”

He hesitates, and the air is all crackling static again. She felt it before, but it was different when she thought it went one way. It’s alive now. Tangible, almost. A threat or a promise or both.

His eyes flick from the flowers to her face. She smiles, and he opens the door wider. “Sure. Okay.”

She bounces toward the doorway. “Oh! Wait!” She bends down for the bottle of champagne she brought.

“Felicity, I don—”

“Please, just let me come in. Please.”

He relents. As soon as she’s in, he closes the door behind her. She’s surprised at how being here, in the Foundry with Oliver, makes her feel so secure. Not that she doesn’t feel safe without him around, but this place is so much more home these days than her apartment, than her office, than any other place.

_(Maybe it’s not a_ terrible _idea.)_

But she turns and Oliver has put up every shield he has. He’s never learned that no expression is truly blank. That he says so much when he tries to communicate nothing.

“Um. Hi. So, cool place you’ve got!” She twirls toward the center of the room.

He doesn’t chuckle. Doesn’t smile, not even the tiny one he saves for when he thinks she isn’t watching.

“What are you doing here, Felicity?”

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a vase for these, huh?” She sets the bouquet and the bottle on the center table. Usually that table holds weapons or (on the very, very bad days) bodies. The daisies and pale green glass look wrong.

“Felicity.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. Explanations needed. I, um, well, I was watching a movie.” She pauses, turns back to the table, fiddles with the flowers. “Colin Firth was trying so hard to speak Portuguese and that little boy was drumming his little heart out and Emma Thompson was _so sad_. And well, here I am!”

That does not explain things. She knows that doesn’t explain things, but she doesn’t know if she can stand explaining more. Why isn’t she better with words? She knows how they work. Why can’t she ever get them to work for her?

She spins around, saying, “Can you open this?”

Oliver’s closer than he’d been. Much closer. Damn him and his stealthy walking abilities.

“You were watching a movie? And now you’re here. With flowers and champagne. Felicity, _why_?”

She takes a steadying breath, and tightens her grip on the bottle, grateful for something to do with her hands.

“You’re wrong,” she says. “I’m here because you’re wrong.”

He squints and shakes his head a bit. Confused again. Still. But she can illuminate things.

“You aren’t…you aren’t two people, Oliver. You don’t lead two lives. You know whose voice is in my ear when you’re out chasing down bad guys? Yours. Just like you mine is in yours. You don’t have a _separate_ identity, just a secret one. But you know what? So do I. Only I don’t have a mask to go with it.”

He sighs, but she cuts him off before he can speak.

“This stopped being _your_ crusade a long time ago. It’s ours now.”

She wants so badly to reach out, put her hand on his arm, see if she can cross the static without being burned. She doesn’t try.

“Look. You don’t stop being Oliver Queen when you wear that mask any more than I stop being Felicity Smoak behind that computer over there. This is our life, whether we’re together or not, and…”

Her hands are sweaty. The bottle slips, falls. Oliver catches it almost before it’s passed through her fingers. He leans forward to set it down behind her. So close. He’s so close. He doesn’t step back again.

“And what, Felicity?”

She can’t do it yet. Can’t touch him. She can’t cross. Not yet. Not fully. It’s too risky. But she can wade in.

She puts her hands behind her, grips the table, and leans forward. An inch, maybe two. Enough to turn the gap between them into a sliver. Enough to feel his breath.

“And I love you,” she says. “Whether you’re in a suit or ridiculous green leather. Whether you’re standing behind a desk or behind a bow. I love you, okay?”

And suddenly there is no divide, no barrier, no gulf to cross. He’s met her halfway.

His kiss is gentle like last time. But different, too. Because it’s a promise, not a regret. She leans into him, slides her hands up his arms. He holds the back of her neck, secure, and she knows he’ll catch her, always.

When he pulls away, the air that rushes in isn’t so unbearable anymore. It doesn’t crackle; it hums.

“I have one question,” he says, thumb padding under her jawline.

“Mmm?” is all she can manage.

“You think my leather’s ridiculous?”

She laughs, loud and bright. She doesn’t answer. She pulls him back to her and wonders how she’ll ever let him go again.

Which is when she realizes: she won’t have to, not ever again.

_Good job, self. Best. Idea. Ever._


End file.
